


Brokedown Palace

by darkcomedylateshow



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Probably abandoned forever. Sorry guys!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:25:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkcomedylateshow/pseuds/darkcomedylateshow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the town of Sanctuary rode a stranger one fine day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU where the Sole Survivor settled his scores early on, burned most of his bridges, and became an outlaw. 
> 
> [Thanks @ my beta team, angelbot and Remyplurodan.]

     The first thing Preston hears is clinking along a chain fence. Mama Murphy’s made more than a few strung-out observations about how the kid can hear from a mile away, he’s so antsy, but he's certain this is coming from right outside. He sits up on his mattress, quiet so as not to stir anyone sleeping near him, much less the stranger. He hears heavy boots. Someone’s walking by, dragging the butt of their gun along the fence Sturges built to keep the Brahmin from wandering into the yard.

     He yanks his boots on, clutching his musket to his chest. It glows a few feet in front of him. He steps out of the tiny room, past the hall where Jun and Marcy are (for once peacefully) sleeping. Grabs a few extra fusion cells sitting on the old kitchen counter. The place doesn’t even have a goddamn door anymore, so he just sticks his head out of the frame.

     Too well-armored to be a scavver, but he’s never seen a raider go it alone. The Pip-Boy on the stranger’s arm is glowing green. Now that he’s closer, he can hear Ella Fitzgerald warbling fuzzily from the radio. That’s all he can see.

He steps out into the yard, the laser capacitor on his musket humming loudly. The stranger turns around. His shotgun’s suddenly pointed straight at his chest. Preston's never been in a real standoff. He has to swallow before words can come out in the right order.

     “Don’t come a step closer,” he whispers. “You hear me, man? There are innocent people _sleeping_ in here.”

     “Is this Sanctuary Hills?”

     Preston realizes he doesn’t take his threat seriously — why would he? This isn’t this guy’s first time on the receiving end of a laser musket.

     “Yeah,” he sighs. “It is.”

     Slowly, the stranger holsters his gun.

     “Just go back to bed,” he says, with a voice like honey. "I’m not hurting a flea.”

     Preston doesn’t say anything. Just lowers his musket, slowly, and steps back. The stranger doesn’t even hesitate to turn his back on him, so neither does he. From the window, he can see him sit down, but not much else. He lies down on the mattress and spends the night awake.

 

* * *

 

     “You’re telling me you let a _stranger_ with a _loaded gun_ sleep on the fucking _porch_?”

     “He’s just passing through.” Preston sits by the cooking spit, running coffee through a strainer made out of an old T-shirt. “That’s what he told me.”

     That’s not true, of course. He doesn’t have any idea why he’s here, and why he hasn’t gotten up and kept walking. Marcy’s scratching at her arms, pushing her hair back again and again — she’s always agitated, but Preston hasn’t seen her like this since they last uprooted from Concord. Jun is relatively calm sitting next to her, picking at his sneakers.

     The man is still asleep in a lawn chair across the street, shotgun in his lap.

     “Oh my God.” Her voice is lowered, but Preston knows she’d be yelling if she had any less control. “I don’t know about you, _Sheriff_ , but I wouldn’t take too kindly to people passing through at four in the morning. What if he’s — some kind of raider? What if he’s got a _gang_ waiting at the bottom of the hill?”

     Sturges lets some smoke eke out through his nose. “I doubt it, Marcy. Look.”

     Preston looks where he’s pointing with his cigarette. There’s a familiar mutt sleeping by his rucksack.

     “ _And_ he took Dogmeat,” she sneers.

      

* * *

 

     The stranger wakes up at about twelve — the chair creaks loudly, waking Dogmeat along with him. He pushes a shock of white-blond hair back from his face, back into the gray fisherman’s cap on his head.

     He eats what looks like dried Mutfruit, then feeds something to Dogmeat. Preston hopes to hell it isn’t irradiated, but that dog’s got a lead belly anyway. He notices he’s watching him. They meet eyes for a second, him sitting in the plastic lawn chair, Preston leaning against the doorframe.

     “You always have that thing out?” the stranger calls. “Or is it just me?”

He hadn’t even realized, but he was holding his musket close to his hip, the way he usually did when he patrolled. Mama Murphy was right about a few things — he was on edge. Always had been since he was a kid, but lately, it had only gotten worse. Not to mention that Marcy’s words were getting to him. He’d checked the perimeters, even inside the empty houses, and come up dry. He’d calculated worst-case-scenarios about the amount of raiders that could possibly show up. He almost thought about asking Sturges to patch up some of the turrets, as if two or three pea shooters would protect thirteen other people from buckshot and power armor.

     But he’d never heard of raiders doing anything but charging in on a place. They weren’t smart or charming enough to pull an infiltration. He sighs and lowers his gun, and walks across the street, keeping his distance just enough.

     “Neither,” he says.

     “Isn’t that just a minor miracle?” he says, his smile glinting. “Two men in the Commonwealth can put down their guns and just talk.”

     “This isn’t a raider camp.” Preston runs his hand along the wooden supports, then decides not to. He suspects that roof is ready to cave in any day. In the pit of his stomach, he wishes it would come down on top of him. Or the both of them. “We’re honest people. And I’m trusting you’re not here to take advantage of that.”

     “Oh, no,” the stranger says, looking away to retrieve a canteen from his rucksack. “Hell no.”

 

* * *

 

     “What’s your name, kid?” Carla asks him, while he bums a smoke from her.

     “Lee.” Preston's never seen a matchbook like the one in his hand before — red, white, and blue lettering, words he can’t make out. What looks like a drawing of a baseball on the front. Best not to stare any longer from the workbench to figure out what.

     “Haven’t I seen you somewhere? Bunker Hill?” Dogmeat puts his head between Preston’s knees to get his attention, and he rubs behind his ears, kisses the top of his dumb dog head, still trying to listen.

     “Maybe. Maybe not.” He fiddles with the button on his coat. “If you did, I was probably doing a friend a favor.”

     “You do friends lots of favors, I take it.”

     It’s none of Preston’s business what Carla gets up to outside of Sanctuary, so long as she comes back every now and then with some surplus to sell. But he doesn’t like what they’re saying, the hushed tones they suddenly take knowing he’s in earshot.

     “Used to.” Lee shrugs. “I actually came here from Goodneighbor.”

     “Goodneighbor? I heard work there went belly-up after Bobbi No-Nose skipped town.”

     “Yeah…” He grinds the cigarette into the asphalt with his toe, and lowers his voice. Then he throws the empty matchbook away, landing on the edge of the pavement. He and Carla, walking down the street, looking thick as thieves.

     “What did I _say_?” Marcy whispers.

 

* * *

 

     He’s lying down on the mattress, army blanket thrown to his side. Outside he can hear a few settlers, laughing amongst each other. The radio is on the kitchen counter. Then comes that unfamiliar scrape of combat boots. Dogmeat trotting alongside, barking at the cows.

     He’d rather not be caught resting his eyes in front of this guy. He stands up, smooths down his shirt, tries to make it seem like he’d been reading or about to start fixing the windowsill or something — then he hears a low whistle from the kitchen. His legs move before he can think, and there’s Lee, standing there, running his hand along the countertop.

     “Sorry,” he says, picking up and shaking a box of Sugar Bombs. Preston flinches at every move he makes. He acts like he owns the place. “I was just getting sentimental.”

     “What?”

     Lee turns away from him, hands in his pockets. “You’re the sheriff?”

     “No reason to have a sheriff. We’re just a settlement.”

     “But you bring law and order to the settlement.” Lee knits his brows together in faux-confusion.

     Preston wants to shrug, but he doesn’t; instead he straightens his spine. “We’re very friendly people here, you know that? Maybe too friendly. We’re not used to threats on the inside.”

     “I’m not a threat to you.” He looks right at him — Preston notices his eyes, brown and steely — then wanders off, resting his hand on the old television set. “This place almost looks the same, you know.”

     “What?”

     “Used to live here. Back in the day.” Lee turns back to him and stares, in a way that’s supposed to be meaningful. The significance goes clean over Preston’s head -- he’s too anxious to process the statement. Lee just rolls his eyes. “Way back. When there was a door on the frame.”

     “The hell are you talking about?”

     “I said I used to live here. In this house. Now you do. And it seems I’m unwelcome.”

     “You're an outlaw.”

     “This isn't a Western,” he scoffs. “I did some jobs. Then I stopped.”

     “You murdered people.”

     “You telling me you never had to shoot someone out here?” He steps closer. Preston isn't so dumb he can't tell he's trying to intimidate him, but it's working. “There's always some asshole ready to knife you and take the clothes off your back. Or ready to kill children and peddle people chems. What do you wanna do about it? Stand off at high noon?”

     Preston tries not to bite his lip or fidget or do anything at all, really, not when he’s looking at him like that.

     “Didn’t think so.”

      

* * *

 

     From the corner of his eye, he spots a white piece of cardboard on the sidewalk, a little damp from the rain. He squats and picks it up, examining it carefully. In red and blue letters, it reads: _Boston Red Sox. World Series 2077._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really appreciate the reception for the first chapter! I've been trying to reply to every comment and start some kind of discussion, but if there get to be too many to reasonably do that, then that's also a good thing I guess. Either way, thank you for the support. Also thanks again @angelbot for the beta read.

     Lee was never a sound sleeper before he set foot into a Vault. Ever since, he found he could drift off anywhere he needed — so long as the surface was horizontal and wasn’t near any bloatflies, he’d be fine. The drawback was that he started dreaming again.

     Usually they were pretty predictable — ferals lunging at him, waking up in a cold sweat — but lately, there was one that really got to him. One of those dreams that lingers in the back of your mind for days. He’d had it three times to date.

     Lee _knows_ he’s in a dream, which is the worst part. It’s pre-war Fenway, and he’s standing in an empty outfield, with just the clothes on his back. He circles the bases, sits in the dugout, sees the pristine locker room halls like on TV. He finds himself wandering past empty concession stands, empty friers.

     There’s nothing he can do to bolt himself awake, nothing lurking in the shadows. Just himself. Sometimes he hears the wind or a thunderclap, stirring him, but his body is always too heavy with exhaustion to do anything but sink back into it. The sky is bright blue. When he wakes up, the feeling of dread follows him out of it. When he picks up his things and starts walking again, he doesn’t let himself look back.

 

* * *

 

     “What happened to that guy?” Jun asks the next morning. It’s the first complete sentence Preston has heard out of him in a while.

     “Asleep,” Sturges says. “Last house on the east end. He didn’t budge when I came in.”

     “Huh.” Preston looks between them all, wondering what to say. He’s still sticking to his lie about this stranger only passing through, but the longer he stays, the less feasible it is. “Well, he’ll probably leave soon.”

     “ _Ohhh_ no.” Mama Murphy intones, sitting some feet away, hands in her lap, assuming the role of the oracle she always liked to play. “He’s not going anywhere.”

     “Quit that shit.” Marcy stands up, as if she’s about to walk away, but she just stares her down, as if this isn’t something they’ve all been through. “Why? Is he your new _connection_?”

     “Wouldn’t put it past him,” Sturges mumbles, starting to tinker with the power switch in his hands.

     “No, no, it’s not like that, sweetheart.” Mama Murphy rocks in the chair, eyes glassy. She’s not high, though. Preston can tell when she is. “His energy … it’s tied to this place. This house.”

     “You’re so full of shit.”

     “Wait.” Preston hesitates, then pulls the matchbook out, turning it over between his fingers. “She’s right. I think — he said _something_ about living here once. A long time ago. Mama Murphy, what else do you see?”

     “I don’t … it’s all fuzzy, kid, I can’t tell. All I know is … there’s more going on than you think. But you gotta be careful. He’s close with some … shady characters.”

     “Doesn’t take any fucking Sight to see that,” Marcy says, and Preston knows she’s right.

 

* * *

 

     “The hell am I supposed to remember the 2077 World Series? That was a busy year, in case you forgot.”

     “Look, I know it’s a long shot.” Preston’s sitting on the curb next to one of the ghoul farmers, an older fellow who’d mentioned before he remembered when the bombs fell. He feels pathetic, holding out this little white matchbook, not even knowing what he’s asking. “Can you just think about it? Anything would help.”

     “It was... earlier than usual. It was supposed to be in Fenway — uh, you know, Diamond City — on the twenty-fourth. That was the final. But, uh, you know what happened.” He scratches behind his ears, rubs at his temple, searching. “Must have been the Dodgers. Or the Giants — yeah, it was the San Francisco Giants. Sons of bitches.”

     Preston doesn’t really know what to say, so he just thanks him, and goes back to tend to some razorgrain.

 

* * *

 

     Preston finds Lee at the armor workbench, patching up one of the arm pieces. He didn’t seem like the crafty type — he wants to comment on it, but he doesn’t want to give the impression he’s happy he’s still here.

     “So I’m taking it you’re staying here?” Preston asks.

     “Yeah, unless you’ve got plans to ride me out on a rail.” Lee doesn’t look up, focused on stitching the leather patch together. “That doesn’t seem like your style.”

     “Can I ask you something?” he blurts.

     “Depends.”

     Preston sets his shoulders back, dwelling on how exactly to phrase the question. “Are you good with your hands? At building things?”

     “I have built things before, yes,” Lee says, coolly. “Saves caps if you know how to mod your own weapons.”

     “Yeah.” He swallows thickly. “So — look. You obviously know how to handle yourself in a fight. And you know people who do, too.”

     “You need me to clear someplace out and set it up.”

     He’s dumbfounded. “...Yes. Mirelurks. A pretty big pod of them. If you can’t, I —”

     “Alright. I’ll need backup. I’m talking five other people, minimum. And scrap. Everything you’ve got in that workshop.”

     “Understood.”

     Except Preston doesn’t understand a lick of what happened. He thanks him, goes into his room, and sits down, just barely resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall.

 

* * *

 

      When they show up at the safehouse by the Castle, Lee has company — a ghoul, dressed in colonial clothes. Out of earshot they murmur to each other, casting glances at Preston and some of the settlers. He only hopes it’s out of concern for four men and one woman in flannel shirts with varmint rifles.

     “Look at you, Minuteman,” the ghoul says when they stride over. He holds out his hand, and for some reason, Preston accepts it. “John Hancock. I was wondering what happened to you guys after Quincy.”

     “It wasn’t pretty.” Preston fiddles with his musket. “But we’re looking to rebuild. The Commonwealth — well, I think they still need us.”

     “Right. I understand. Glad you made it out.” Hancock isn’t looking at him — he goes around the kitchen counter, pocketing a few bullets. “What’s your strategy for taking out these things?”

     Lee’s digging through his bag to reload his shotgun. “I thought maybe we’d go at them from both sides. Keep them all in one place. Can everyone handle that?”

     The settlers mumble off some reply. Preston’s not sure.

     “I mean it. For your sakes. If you want to go around it another way, let me know now.”

     “Why don’t we draw them out and bottleneck ‘em?” one of them says, after a moment. “Only have to take on a few at a time that way.”

     “That’s smart. That’ll work.” Lee glances up at the fortress. “We in agreement?”

     Preston nods silently. Hancock cuts in. “Let’s roll.”

 

* * *

 

     When he’s sure the last Mirelurk egg is full of buckshot, Lee turns around. Him, Hancock, Preston, and four people. Preston had seen the pod queen pin down one of the guys with pincers, and the twist in his stomach when he realized there was nothing he could do hadn’t left him.

     “Sorry. I didn’t want it to work out that way.”

     No one has anything to say.

     “Why don’t we rest up?” Preston finally says, practically through his teeth. “We’ll get to work on defenses and the radio tower tomorrow morning. And, uh, we’ll make sure we inform his family.”

     The four of them reply noncommittally, lighting lanterns and disappearing behind the stone walls. Preston looks across the field, kicking away a bloodied carapace. He wonders what parts of the courtyard have fertile soil. He wonders if this was a good idea at all.

     “Hancock, will you make it home alright?” Lee asks, the two of them standing by the entrance to the fort.

     “Yeah. Don’t sweat it.” The ghoul gives him a pat on the arm, then slips away.

     Once he’s gone, Lee lights a cigarette. The matchbook is for Red Rocket Truck Stop. “I figured you might have been a Minuteman. But I didn’t want to ask.”

     “It doesn’t matter.”

     “It kinda does.” He shrugs, taking a long drag. “It explains a lot. Those people, they trust you. Whether or not it’s because you’re doing the right thing, I don’t know. But you care. I respect that.”

     “Thanks.”

     Lee scoffs. “You probably don’t want my respect. Outlaw killer and all.”

     “I don’t know you,” Preston says, but he’s not sure what he wants to convey by saying that. _I don’t know you_ , or _but I want to_?

     “You’re right. You don’t. Just like I don’t know you. Better that way?”

     “Yeah.” Preston finds his lantern from his bag — Lee comes towards him and strikes another match to light the candle. Neither of them like standing too close together. "Better that way."

     Lee watches him walk through the courtyard among scattered Mirelurk corpses, until his lantern vanishes.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_I have heard that they, uhh… they have taken over The Castle — which I guess was theirs a long time ago, but hasn't been for a while? It had been full of fish, or monsters… or… monster fish? Maybe? I don't know…_

     “Ringing endorsement.” Lee’s turned up the volume on his radio, just so there’s something to listen to through a smoke break. He watches Sturges and one of the ghouls —  _Raheem? Maybe?_  — set up a power conduit above the entrance to the Castle.

     “In case you forgot, the Commonwealth operates on a one-month news cycle,” Hancock says. “People in Goodneighbor are still tellin’ me all about Bobbi skipping town.”

     “That’s funny.” Lee takes his cap off, examining a hole in the knit wool. He sticks his finger through it. It’s February, at least according to the Pip-Boy on his wrist, but it doesn’t feel like it. It seems likely he won’t need that hat for much longer, but then it’s a matter of storing it. The idea of putting winter clothes up in an attic somewhere must have sounded so antiquated that he didn’t even bother to ask. “It might be good for them. Get more people to join that way.”

     “You know, boss,” Hancock tells him, rubbing at his forehead. “As much as I support the cause, this wasn’t exactly my idea of adventure.”

     “Tired of that.” Lee leans forward, resting his elbow on his knee. He notices Preston eyeing the two of them a few yards away, trying not to look like he’s staring. “This isn’t any better. But I’m tired of nearly getting myself killed.”

_Uhh, how about some Nat King Cole? He's good, right?_

 

* * *

 

     “Miss Shaw,” Preston says, when they’re on their way out. “I want to thank you. We’ve been needing someone with experience.”

     “You’re doing fine, you know,” she says, pocketing fusion cells and grenades. Preston’s holding the old General’s coat and the artillery schematics. “I’ve seen leaders worse than you. Better ones, too. But you command respect.”

     “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

     “Don’t sell yourself short, kid.” Preston can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “If you weren’t cut out to be General, you wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

     “I was thinking — with the chain of command and everything, it would make more sense if —”

     “No.” Ronnie turns around, the look on her face incredulous, but Preston can tell she’s serious. “I can lead a unit. I can rally them. I can help with the artillery. But you can’t expect me to be General, four stars and all. I’m years past that.”

     He stares down at the stone floors. “I’m just not sure what to do.”

     “Take a leap of faith. Okay?”

     Preston never understood what that phrase really meant, or knew when it would ever apply. He holds out the coat, examines it, then sighs.

 

* * *

 

     “I need to ask you something.”

     “What’s going on?” Lee asks, pushing some hair back from his face. He’s been sitting around the cooking spit, more for the warmth of the fire than craving any Radstag steak.

     “Will you be General of the Minutemen?”

     “What? No.” Lee furrows his brows, staring up at him. “What the hell are you talking about? Why don’t you do it?”

     “Because we need someone charismatic.” Preston sits down across from him. “Someone who knows their way around a fight and won’t get themselves killed.”

     “Oh my God,” he mumbles, and Preston feels his chest tighten, wishing Lee would stop fucking grinning over this. “You know what I am? An independent mercenary. I work by myself so only I’m held accountable. So I don’t have to deliver anyone’s  _corpse_ to their  _mother_.”

     “I heard you this morning. You said it yourself.” Preston meets his eyes. “You’re tired of that life.”

     “This life. Maybe I’m just tired of  _life_ ,” he mumbles, rubbing his face. “Look. I will be there to lend a hand, but —”

     “Think about it?”

     “I’ll  _think_  about it,” Lee says, widening his eyes to emphasize. “Needed to run an errand anyway. But that doesn’t mean I’ll have changed my mind when I’m done.”

     He stands up, tucking a can of purified water into his bag. It’s going to be a cold night and a long walk. He leaves Preston sitting there. Doesn’t let himself look back.

 

* * *

 

     “Danse.”

     Lee knows he’s already heard him. Danse is attuned to the sound of a match striking — it’s usually what marks the beginning and end of each time he visits him. He turns his head to blow the smoke away from Danse’s face, and sits down next to him on the bench, facing outside. Neither of them say anything.

     “All quiet here,” Danse finally says. He shakes his head when Lee offers him a beer. “Sometimes I think I hear vertibirds, or scribes outside, but… it’s always nothing. I shot a radstag the other day.”

     “Probably beats whatever else you’ve been eating.” Lee glances at him — he seems calm, but ever since he found Danse in that listening post, he’d started to notice things, little things that had first seemed like peculiarities but now screamed synth. Funny how the first time Lee had ever heard of a synth, it was from him, telling him to take out as many as he could. “You must be going insane.”

     “I’m surprised I haven’t yet.” Danse scratches at his jaw. They’re sitting across from his frame of power armor. Lee had brought him some pieces he’d found over time — he’d started to worry about raiders and packs of Super Mutants finding him, all alone. “Then again, I’m not sure if I’m capable of it. There’s probably some kind of algorithm keeping my faculties intact.”

     “Don’t be ridiculous.” Lee takes a deep drag on his cigarette, shaking his head. “The — your model, it was supposed to mirror human behavior perfectly. That includes reacting properly to being stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do.”

     “Can we talk about something else?”

     “Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” He puts out his smoke and sighs. “I need to get your advice anyway.”

     “Because you’re very well-known for taking my advice.”

     “Very funny.” Lee sucks in a deep breath, unsure how to start. “There’s this… a guy wants me to lead this… group. They’re disorganized, there’s no real hierarchy, and I’ve only heard about them through stories. And the guy, he’s already the leader. But he wants me to do it instead.”

     “Why? Does he know you?”

     “No. I mean, we know each other’s names. I found him in my house. Where I lived, you know, before the war.”

     Danse seems frustrated. “Can we skip the pretenses? Who are these people?”

     “The Minutemen.” Lee just barely dodges the look he’s giving him. “Look, I know. But that place is my home. And I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

     “Why do you think I wanted to leave the Commonwealth?”

     “And do what? Start all over again? Find out the rest of my family got turned into ferals?”

     “I get it,” Danse says. “You want to go back. Pretend nothing has changed. But everything that’s changed since you stepped out of that Vault has been at your hands.”

     “Everything’s ruined and it’s my fault. I get it.” He stands up and looks over the hills. Suddenly he understands why Danse would be paranoid about vertibirds — he’s practically in a canyon, without much sense of the horizon. It's anyone's guess what's outside.

     “Lee, I don’t have anything to live for.”

     “Neither do I.” He leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “But I’m going to try.”

 

* * *

 

     Preston spots him while he’s helping with the artillery. Four more people have come by to help, mostly scavvers looking for a place to sleep. He’d been wondering if Lee was intending to just never come back. That would have been enough impetus to appoint himself as General. But it’s less than two days when he sees him standing at the gates, hands in his pockets — Preston excuses himself and goes downstairs to the courtyard.

     “Garvey.” Lee looks behind his shoulder, then back to him. “I’ll do it. But I want Lieutenant Shaw leading the battalion here. Beyond that, Minutemen are self-guided. And I’m not wearing that coat. Put it on a mannequin or something.”

    “Sure thing,” he says, “ _General_.”

     Lee doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even know where to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were curious about my face for Lee/his SPECIAL stats you can look [here](http://foggynerdson.tumblr.com/post/135422636289), but he's pretty embarrassingly boring-looking.


	4. Chapter 4

     “Hey.” Lee sidles up next to the synth in the ratty grey suit, something he must have picked up from a storage locker somewhere. Deacon looks around, slightly paranoid, then pats Lee roughly on the shoulder.

     “I found this in Tom’s drawer. Just some old intel from the terminals on some of their associates.” He hands Lee a holotape, which he puts in his bag next to the barstool. “Your friend’s a wreck. Just so you know. Tell him I don’t want to see another Wazer Wifle in my face next time I come by, alright?”

     Deacon’s already a little drunk, but Lee will catch up with him sooner or later. He notices Magnolia on a smoke break in the corner. Probably best not to embarrass himself by talking to her.  

     “Yeah, well.” Lee watches Whitechapel Charlie turn around to pour him a beer. He’s thankful Mr. Handies can’t spit. “Danse has some things to sort out. And he wants to do it by himself, for some reason.”

     “You tried getting him outside? Knocking some heads together in Diamond City? I bet Valentine could use some hired muscle.”

     “I’m going to wait a while before I even ask.” Lee shrugs, examining some of the grime on the outside of his glass. “I’ve kind of been disappointing him lately.”

     “Joining the Minutemen. Convening with synths. Yeah, that’s not a great track record. Not to mention, uh, bailing out on the…” Deacon pauses, then glances behind him. _Eyes and ears everywhere_ , he always says. “Had any close calls lately?”

     Lee shakes his head. “No. Maxson would have found me by now. I think they're just… waiting. For me to do something stupid.”

     “Fuckin’ A.”

* * *

 

     Preston kicks a canister of Jet away, watching it skid into a gutter. Anywhere with the name Sunshine Tidings Co-Op would have attracted a chem-friendly crowd, he knows, but he at least wishes there was a doctor or something around. They’ve made decent headway already -- two weeks and they’ve gotten four settlements calling themselves Minutemen. He watches Lee ration out boxes of macaroni and cheese to the settlers. There are already a handful of them trying to salvage dying crops. Making their best of this all.

     He realizes this moment, specifically, is the one he’d fantasized about when he started sending Lee off on trips to put settlements together. Just with different faces. He’d hoped it would have been him.

     Lee approaches him a few minutes later, lighting a cigarette -- something that had annoyed Preston at first, but the smell and sound of the match striking had gotten so familiar, he didn’t mind. “I think we should split. These guys have the right idea.”

     “It’s your call, General.” When they’re alone, Preston’s been saying it with almost a tinge of sarcasm, like he can’t believe he gave him the title either.

     “Right. _Let us_ split.”

* * *

 

     They’re headed back east to the Castle, and end up cutting through the Boston Common. It seems like a given they’d swing by Diamond City for a beer -- they’ve gone before, but Preston’s usually opted to catch up with him later. This time, though, a drink doesn’t sound too bad. Enough to numb himself out for a little bit.

     It’s St. Patrick’s Day, or at least gearing up to it, judging by the homemade paper shamrocks hanging from the stands and market stalls. Preston can tell Vadim is surprised at his enthusiasm towards a lukewarm bottle of Gwinnett lager, while Lee shoots the shit with Hawthorne on one of the couches. He tries not to pay attention to what the two of them are talking about, although he suspects he’s toning it down a little just in case.

     He’s one beer deep before a guy in a baseball jacket slides up next to him -- he seems to hesitate before saying something. “Hey. Is it really you? Preston Garvey?”

     “That’s me.” He furrows his brow. “Do you need something?”

     “No, no, man, I just wanted to thank you. My family and I are gonna move out to Oberland Station soon. You ought to know you’re doing the Commonwealth one hell of a service.” He grabs his shoulder and gives it a firm shake -- Preston tries not to flinch, smiling uneasily. “Next round’s on me.”

     “...Thank you for saying that.”

     Lee hears him from the couches, and tries not to laugh at how honest-to-God _relieved_ Garvey sounds.

* * *

 

     The next round turns into the next five rounds. Preston wakes up in the back room of the Dugout Inn on a broken mattress -- he stumbles into the bar with his head thrumming. Lee’s eating breakfast at the bar, and when he sees him, he grins and gestures him over. “Here he is. Jesus Christ.”

     For some reason, the first question that comes to Preston’s mind is: “Did I do anything stupid?”

     “You didn’t start a fight or try to sleep with anyone, so, no. Sit down, alright?”

     He does, the barstool creaking. Vadim comes by with a plate of eggs and toast. “Breakfast for the Minuteman. Still on your tab.”

     “Just eat it,” Lee tells him when he notices the look on his face. “It’s mostly grease.”

     Mirelurk omelet isn’t that bad covered in hot sauce. It clears his head a little, although he isn’t looking forward to heading back to the Castle any time soon. Lee fiddles with the dials on the radio, trying to get rid of the crackle. Preston rubs at the bridge of his nose, hoping the pressure would get rid of his headache. He hasn’t drank like this in a while -- not for lack of wanting to, but he’d been on his feet too much.

     “You look awful.” Lee slides what he hopes is a Stimpak over to him. “I honestly thought you wouldn’t want to stick around.”

     “Sorry.” Preston examines the receiving end of the Stimpak and sticks his thigh with it, wincing. “That guy was...really enthusiastic about it, you know --”

     “You don’t have to apologize, Garvey. Jesus. I had fun.”

     “If you say so.” He opens his mouth to say something, but notices Lee’s already looking away, fiddling with the dial on the radio. Whatever he had in mind slips away.

* * *

 

     They’re a few miles due east of Bunker Hill when Preston notices Carla making her way down the street, probably passing through to another settlement, like she always does. It’s been awhile since Preston last saw her, so he waves.

     When she sees the two of them, she curses under her breath. He realizes she’s staring straight at Lee, puffing on her cigarette, looking like she tasted something bitter.

     “Any reason you haven’t been around lately, Carla?” Lee asks as he walks towards her, and Preston hopes this is some joke he isn’t in on, something that will blow over in less than a few seconds.

     “Had some places to go,” Carla says, blowing smoke in his direction.

     “Places to go.” Lee takes a step closer -- something about the tone in his voice makes Preston realize he isn’t kidding. “How much are they paying you, Carla?”

     “What?”

     Suddenly Lee has her by the collar, and Preston knows he needs to step in, but he can’t bring himself to. He just stands there with his musket, motionless.

     “I want to know. How much did they pay you for Bunker Hill?”  

     “Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” she says, but her voice is wavering.

     “I have this holotape in my bag, see, and it’s got a list of names. Real official.” Carla tries to yank his arm away, but he's firm. “Hired informants for the Institute, from the Synth Retention bureau. It’s got your name on it, right in the ‘C’s --”

     “You know what? Fine. Fuck you,” she spits, looking away from him. “You try living in this shithole your whole life. _Without_ any Vault to hole up in.”

     “Here’s how it’s going to play out. You leave the Commonwealth. I suggest you head for the border by sundown.” He’s oddly calm for someone exiling an acquaintance. “Or I shoot you in broad daylight. Your call.”

     “You know something?” Carla asks, trying to wriggle away from his grasp. “At least down in the Institute, they’re not _savages_. At least there’s some goddamn hope for the future.”

     “They don’t give a shit about you. You know that, right? They won’t be wondering where you went. They find your body, they’ll just think some raider gutted you and then they’ll cross your name off a list --”

     “Lee, don’t.” Preston steps behind him, and Lee turns his head to look at him for just a second, his eyes wild.

     While he’s distracted, Carla grinds her lit cigarette into the back of Lee’s hand -- he yelps, sounding almost feral. It’s enough to loosen his grip and let Carla bolt away.

     Preston almost starts to run after her; Lee just shakes his head. _Don’t wear yourself out_ , he seems to say.

     Preston isn’t really sure which way he was trying to run.

     Lee sits on the curb and tries to ease the burn. It looks bad, bits of ash still clinging to his skin. He’s digging with his undamaged hand for a Stimpak, some gel, _something_. Preston remembers his training, somewhat -- he squats next to him and finds some purified water in his bag.

     “Christ, don’t waste that on --”

     “ _General_? Shut up.” Preston grips his hand still and pours the water over it, flecks of ash washing away. His entire hand is bright red. He feels Lee’s shoulders get less tense, but Preston knows it still hurts. Once the can is empty he sits down next to him; Preston recognizes the strange sort of comedy in the moment, but he has nothing to say.

“There are some things I haven’t told you about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you want to know what music your author has been listening to while writing these chapters? Probably not but [here it is anyway.](https://open.spotify.com/user/1216389534/playlist/0EweDsiKMZqHmWJIOkHw5n)
> 
> Thanks @angelbot for beta editing -- remember to like the fic, comment the fic, and subscribe for more fic like this, probably


	5. Chapter 5

     “Alright, cats and kittens,” Deacon says, standing in the courtyard of The Castle. Something is comforting about the fact that half of the Minutemen in front of him are escaped synths. Ideally — Lee’s idea, but still — it’ll make the man standing next to him feel a little better, too. “I’d like you all to meet Danse. He’s gonna give you some guidance on energy weapons, Power Armor, the like. Play nice with him, alright?” 

     “Affirmative.” Deacon winces, but tries to hide it as he steps away, letting the paladin work his magic. Ex-paladin, at least. “I’ve always found that energy weapons and power armor in combination give a soldier the tactical and physical upper hand in combat. Once you get used to fighting in it, you’ll never want to go without it…”  

 

* * *

 

     The walk to Sanctuary felt longer than usual.

     “I didn’t really want to live in a tract house. Neither of us did.” Lee stands in the broken-down yard, hands in his pockets. A handful of settlers are working where the roundabout used to be, turrets and generators humming. “But my parents were up in Maine. They offered to help pay for it. The realtor showed us all the empty houses. All the same inside. Shaun was maybe three months old. There was a park just down the street, and —” 

     He looks down at the grass. Preston looks at the white tiling on what’s left of the roof. “It felt right. We both had this idea living in a little blue house would make everything better.” 

     “Did it?” 

     “I don’t remember.” 

     Preston follows him along through the backyard. He notices the statue from a few miles away that marked the way between Concord and Sanctuary Hills. He hasn’t looked at it in a while, and there’s a strange pang in his stomach upon seeing it. 

     “Lee?” 

     “Yeah?” He doesn’t turn around. 

     “You weren’t going to kill her. Were you?” 

     Lee glances down at the mark on the back of his hand, still a little raw — Preston said they ought to find something to dress it with, but it seemed to have faded from priority. “No.” 

     “Because I was there?” 

     “Probably.” 

 

* * *

 

     It takes Lee a while to find the operator’s booth that turns on the elevator. Preston stands on the platform, looking out over the horizon. He tries to picture autumn leaves and green grass. He can’t. The elevator sputters and starts to slide down — Lee makes it just in time. He watches the low winter sun until it disappears from sight. 

     “Have you been here since…?”

     Lee almost looks like he’s thinking about it. “No. I don’t think so.”

     Preston’s never been inside a Vault, but at least knows what it looks like. It’s not as sterile and bright as he always pictured — rust on the walls, grime on the floor. What looks like dried blood. Lee turns on a flashlight, and they both hear a rumble in the earth, a slow drip coming from the ceiling.

     “I remember there was an accident at a power plant when I was a kid,” Lee says, shining the light towards the loading dock, searching for roaches, or anything else hiding in the dark. “Then years later, there were photographs on the news. The plants grew around the ruins. Taken it back. It was all so green.”

     “Nothing like that would grow here now, I take it.” 

     “Maybe.” 

     Preston sees an honest-to-God skeleton on the floor, still wearing a tattered lab coat, and nearly jumps. 

     “This whole place got frozen in time,” he says, quietly. 

     He walks with him through the halls, passing his fingers over dusty terminals and mess tables. Lee seems restless, like he doesn’t know where to go — at a certain point he sighs, leaning his shoulder against a windowpane.

     “You alright?” Preston asks.

     “Yeah. Just thinking.” 

     Preston decides to leave him be, and makes his way through the corridors. He hears something humming loudly down the hall — he follows the sound, and suddenly he’s in a long hallway. Rows and rows of pods. Two of the chambers are open. He understands. He wishes he didn’t. 

  

* * *

 

_Listen to me_ _listen to me you sons of bitches_        _you killed her. You took him. You took him and made him a goddamn monster. I wish you’d left me behind. I wish you’d never told him_ _I wish he’d been in my arms when you took him,_ _I wish he’d shot me in the head then and there._        _I wish you’d never told him I was frozen there_        _I wish I never found him_        _I wish I found him sooner_

     “General?”  

 _I’ve got tear gas and riot gear you motherfuckers I’ve got railroad spikes and_        _I’ll smoke you and your stupid bunker out but_        _but I_        _I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to. I deserted them.     They wanted to blow the Prydwen to bits and I didn’t let them, and_   _I wanted to let you all die, but I didn’t_

_           I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.  _

     “Lee.” He’s standing behind him, suddenly, unsure whether to reach out or let him be there. “I’m so sorry.” 

     “It should have been me.” 

     “Everyone says that, Lee, but —” 

     “I mean it. It should have been me. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.” 

     Preston swallows and then reaches out to touch his arm. He doesn’t know what else to do. 

     “Let’s go,” Lee finally says. He grabs the hatch to the chamber and closes it. 

 

* * *

 

     He walks with him back to Sanctuary — Lee stands at the crumbling steps of his old house, before going inside. It’s empty. Marcy and Jun and Mama Murphy are just down the street. Settlers laughing somewhere far away. The radio crackles from the old bedroom — it’s the Ink Spots, warbling about how it’s all over but the crying. 

     Lee sits down on what’s left of the couch, pulling a bottle out of his bag. The label’s worn off. Preston sits by him, taking off his hat, and takes a sip of the stuff when Lee offers it — whatever it is, it tastes like medicine. 

     “I shouldn’t have turned around,” he tells Preston, mid-sip. “Shouldn’t’ve come back to this place.” 

     Preston feels a strange knot in his stomach, one that he tries to ignore at first, but he can’t. 

     “Can I tell you something?” Preston glances at him. He links his own fingers together and wrings them, as if it would make it easier to say what he wanted. “It probably won’t make you feel any better, but you should know.” 

     “Sure.” 

     “All my friends were dead by the time you showed up. Keeping Sanctuary safe was the only thing I had going.” He swallows thickly, the words getting harder. “And I — I didn’t know when, or how, but I was ready to die. And then you…” 

     “Don’t. I didn’t save you, Preston.” He puts the bottle down. “ _ You _ saved you. You just needed a little push.” 

     It isn’t what he wanted to hear, but it’s better than nothing. 

     “I’m just trying to say I’m glad you came here.” 

     “That’s funny,” Lee says. Preston glances at him, almost surprised. He’s looking right back at him. 

     “How?” 

     “I don’t know.” Lee runs his hand through his hair, glancing away, then back to him. “Just is.”

     Then he seems to catch himself, sitting a hair too close, letting down his guard. He’s exposed. Preston expects him to laugh it off, say something sarcastic, but he doesn’t.

     Instead Lee looks at him for a second, and starts: “Maybe we should —” 

     Preston doesn’t let him finish. He leans in and kisses him. He doesn’t think about it, beyond how stupid it is. Lee holds still at first — but before Preston can pull back and apologize, tell him he didn’t know what he was thinking, go back and bang his head in a stairwell somewhere — he sets his hand on his back, leaning against the couch. Then less than seconds later his arms are winding around him. This shouldn’t be happening. They both know it. But Preston doesn’t  _ care _ . He isn’t letting go consciously — rather, his grip seems to be slipping through his fingers like sand. 

     Preston puts his hand on the back of his neck, which warrants more of a reaction than he expected. He’s almost about to push him down, which would be easier than the awkward way Preston’s twisted around, but he stops him, coming up for air. He can feel his pulse in his throat. He almost can’t look at him. Lee shakes his head and grins, like he can’t believe they’re doing this either.  

     “Well, what I was  _ tryin _ ’ to say was,” Lee says, and both of them share a nervous laugh. “Maybe we should, uh…” 

     Preston clears his throat awkwardly. It becomes obvious that they’re both out of practice. Lee gets what he’s trying to say — he stands and holds his hand out, pulling Preston to his feet. A laugh that sounds almost relieved escapes him. Then he feels something dark in the pit of his stomach.  _ This is happening _ . 

     They kiss again in the hallway, stumbling back to the empty room. It’s more careful this time — Preston holds onto the collar of his jacket, using it to level himself to the mattress on the floor. Lee kneels beside him and puts his hand on his chest, and something about the way he does it tells him it’s alright. Then Preston pulls him on top of him, his hand slips further down, and he can’t think at all. 

     He’s about as tall as him, but he feels heavy. It’s a good fit. He’s not used to anything like this — his endeavors in Minutemen barracks were mostly quick, over-the-jeans situations, but Lee’s kissing him slowly, hands combing through his hair. Like they’re doing this for a reason. He doesn’t know what it is yet. He trails his hand down his back and over his ass and pulls him in, grinding hard against his hips. 

     They’re so close that he can feel Lee’s pulse hammering in his chest, and something about that sets him off, to the point where little noises he can’t control come out muffled from his lips. Lee levels himself on one elbow, his thumb brushing over his neck. Preston realizes dimly he should probably tell him he’s a bit of a thrasher left unchecked, but he seems to pick up on it — next time he pushes up against his hips he pushes back, and just a hint of friction forces him into a not-so-quiet  _ ah _ . He tugs at Lee’s belt, hoping it’ll get the point across. 

     “Been a while,” Preston admits when he pulls back, both an apology and an explanation for his enthusiasm. 

     “Same here.” _ It’s not a big deal, _ he’s trying to say. The morbidly curious part of him wants to know when his last was. A year? Two hundred? Lee starts kissing his neck before he can consider it. He wants to tell him not to leave any marks, that it’s not his thing, but his lips stay soft all the way down, even when he struggles to get Preston’s shirt off. 

     Then Lee’s dropping kisses along his stomach, fiddling with his pants, _blatantly_ rubbing his fingers over the shape of his cock — Preston can’t help but arch his back up and grip the blanket next to him. It’s good, good to the point where he’s digging his heels into the floor, practically bracing himself. Then it gets even better. 

     “Fuck.” Preston doesn’t swear that much during sex, but he can’t help it. Nothing about getting head had ever felt particularly _dirty_ before, but Lee’s hands are firm on his hips and it’s like he’s almost _tasting_ him. Lee’s thumb rubs along his hipbone, an unspoken acknowledgement. He wants to push his hips up, but Lee holds them still, hollowing his cheeks. Preston feels like he can’t breathe, but not necessarily in a bad way. 

     He knows that if he looks at him he doesn’t have a chance. It’s enough to feel him while his head’s twisted away, hands bracing the mattress to steady himself. Lee seems to catch on, but doesn’t back down — he moves his head down so his hair brushes his stomach, taking him in his throat. Torturously slow, but still enough to push him closer, his head thrumming, _oh God._

     He forces himself to think of broken fingers and bullets and bloody noses to keep himself from coming in five seconds flat, but it doesn't help. Lee’s too good at keeping his attention, if not demanding it. His tongue circles the tip of his cock, his hands squeezing him roughly, and it does him in — one of those black-out orgasms where his fingers feel numb. Lee swallows around him and he moans, unfortunately loud. 

     When Lee pulls back, he's grinning at him, but not in a mean way. Like he appreciates the reception. Preston kisses him again as soon as they're close. He's thankful neither of them think it's gross. 

     After Preston catches his breath, he starts to move his head down, but Lee touches his shoulder. “It's okay. I just…” 

     Lee takes his wrist loosely. Preston gets the idea — he cups the front of his pants and then unzips. He wants to make some comment on how it didn't oversell, but instead Lee’s talking: 

     “It's fine. Like this. I just wanna see you.” 

     “I don't see the appeal,” he says, with a hint of a smile. 

     Lee shoots him a look. “Don't be cute.” 

     It's a good fit in his hand. Thick, but not enough that he can't get a handle on it. Makes him wonder what it'd feel like if Lee fucked him — he entertains the thought for a while, pumping his hand slowly. Lee puts a hand on Preston’s chest and pushes him down on his back, so he's lying on top of him while he jerks him off. Something about it is strangely intimate — it’s a little harder to be consistent with his arm wedged between them, but it’s not too bad. Lee meant what he said. He’s looking at him, sometimes meeting his eyes from under his lashes. He’s not loud at all, all whispered _fuck_ s and harsh breath. 

     He looks at him again, and Preston notices the look on his face wavering, along with the rest of him. Then he notices how he looks like he’s about to topple over. 

     “You okay?” he asks, not sure whether to stop or go faster. 

     “I —” he freezes, staring down into Preston’s chest. “It’s not you.” 

     Preston can tell he means it, but it still stings a little. He stops moving his hand, slowly, feeling him go soft.  

     “What’s wrong?” 

     Lee shakes his head, then rests it against his chest. “I can’t.” 

     His voice breaks. Preston doesn’t actually know what to say, so he just rests his hand on his back. Lee’s shoulders are shaking. He wonders if he’s crying. He doesn’t really know how to deal with crying people — not ones he knows, at least. 

     He’s not, though. His face doesn’t look wet. But he can tell he’s close to it, holding it back as best as he can. Preston strokes his hair back from his face, kissing the top of his head, wondering if they should have gone through with this. If it was too much. 

    “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Preston says, barely above a whisper. 

     Lee takes a shuddering breath, zips his pants, and flops over next to him. He lights a cigarette and stares out the window — Preston tries not to stare. He looks like he’s trying to process everything. “I thought I’d feel better. Sleeping in my old room. But…” 

     Preston turns his head to look at him, the smoke rising up in the air. “Bad memories?” 

     “No. I don’t feel anything at all.” 

     “Oh.” 

     They stay like that for a while, Preston trying to make out the lyrics on the radio in the other room. Then slowly, deliberately, Lee puts his arm around him, and Preston rests his head on his chest. His skin is still warm, his hand firm on his side. He forces himself to match Lee’s breathing, and finds it getting shallower, slower. This is okay, he tells himself. Everything is under control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thanks @3floresce for beta reading the Sex Parts and angelbot, as always, for beta reading the Regular Parts. Also, it might interest you that the latter beta reader is just getting started on a Dragon Age fic and if you're into that kinda thing you should check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5507786/chapters/12721361)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading: Sorry for taking ages with this, and thanks for sticking around. This dumb thing's almost over.

     When the sun rises, Preston turns his head away to shield his eyes. After some initial confusion, he remembers he’s in the house in Sanctuary. He faintly remembers having his head pillowed on Lee’s shoulder, then moving away once his cheek started to feel plastered there.

     Shit. Right.

     “Morning.” Lee’s sitting next to him, fully dressed and drinking something from a thermos. It smells like coffee, but he can’t be too sure.

     “Yeah.” Preston rubs at his face, fiddling with his shirt buttons and pulling his coat back on. He can’t think of anything useful to say, so he asks: “...Did you sleep well?”

     “Yeah. Slept fine.” He smiles at him. It’s not weird like he anticipated. “I woke up early. I had this dream. Been having it for a while.”

     “About?” Preston throws his arm over his eyes for a second, before realizing he’ll drift off again that way. Still, he turns his head to listen to him.

     “Walking through Diamond City. Back when it was a ballpark.” Preston hears him sip on his coffee. “It’s all empty and I can’t find the way out. Sure that’s just fucking _ripe_ with symbolism.”

     “Mama Murphy could probably tell you what it means.”

     “No, I know what it means,” Lee says, clasping his fingers and resting his chin on them. “We had tickets to the World Series. We were going to go the day after. It was dumb, really, because neither of us liked baseball. But we were always looking for places to take Shaun.”

     “Is that where you got the matchbook?”

     “What matchbook?”

     “Oh.” Preston swallows, looking away. “You had it when you first came here. I found it on the ground.”

     “I… I must have gotten it at the ticket booth. I picked them up a few days before.”

     “Huh.”

     The silence seems stifling. Someone turned the radio down, so there’s nothing to fill it. Then Lee touches his hand, very gently, as if he was going to pass it off as an accident. Preston doesn’t think about it. He grabs his fingers and links them together.

     “Should we head out?”

 

* * *

 

     “Hey, big guy,” Deacon says, leaning against the entrance to the armory. “That wasn’t too bad, was it? I think they’re —”

     “Don’t.” Danse stares him down from behind the set of power armor he’s repairing. “I’m only doing this upon request.”

     “Sounds like it didn’t go well.”

     “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” He turns his attention back to the metal frame. Deacon can tell he’s out of practice with it, but decides not to comment. “These are civilians, not soldiers. I’ve only trained one civilian from the ground up before, and…”

     “And it went swimmingly. You gotta remember, Paladin, these people were like you once. And I mean _exactly_ like you, dig?”

     Danse stands up abruptly. He’s tall even out of power armor. “They’re not. And they never will be.”

     “You’re never getting anywhere like that.” Deacon fiddles with the zipper on his jacket, a cheap biker getup he peeled off a raider hours ago. “Look, I’m in the same boat as you. No real memories, except, you know, I don’t remember anything at _all —_ ”

     “You’re human,” Danse says, and Deacon grins in a way he only hopes is out of shock. “It might have gone over Lee’s head, but not mine. You don’t lead a unit for two years without learning how to spot a lie.”

     “Damn. _Ruthless_.” Deacon’s laughing, which is the exact opposite of what Danse intended. “It’s more like he never asked too much. We had an understanding. He wanted to keep shit under his hat. Hell, I only learned about him stowing _you_ away a few weeks ago.”

     “I also know of your Railroad affiliations,” he says while Deacon lights a cigarette unblinkingly. “But obviously your loyalty isn’t… consistent.”

     “It's not like that. Dez — you know, our leader — likes to rag on the Minutemen because they’re not us, but… from what I can tell, not every synth wants to be a freedom fighter. The Minutemen is, like, middle ground.”

     “I wouldn’t call them middle ground,” Danse says, finally squatting back down to work on the armor. “They’re altruistic. Too much so for their own good.”

     “Yeah, but their militia is real, uh, _ragtag_. And their General’s kind of an asshole.”

     “They’re disorganized,” Danse says, his sneer audible. “Lee pretends he doesn’t see that, or it doesn’t matter. It was the downfall of every group after the war. It’ll be their downfall, too.”

     “Maybe so.” Deacon shrugs, taking a seat and digging a book out of his bag. “Empires rise and fall, death comes for us all eventually, et cetera. Yet here we are. So, when’s the next training session?”   


* * *

     He hears the whir of vertibirds far before anyone else. At first Danse thinks it’s just in his head, but they get louder. People start to notice, looking up.

     When confronted with the reality of the situation, Danse can still find a way to convince himself it’s a coincidence. The Prydwen is stationed only a few miles away. It’s probably just a patrol. He knows, of course, that the typical flight path glosses over the Castle, and goes through Boston Common to Cambridge and back. Going for a mission, he tells himself. Mission where?

     He hears Ronnie Shaw shout something. People cursing.

     “Deacon,” Danse calls across the room. He’s been occupying himself with his book, but he stands after he says his name, stepping out of the room to look around. “I — listen, I need your help. The Brotherhood can’t find me here.”

      Deacon doesn’t say anything for a while, looking out the entrance. They’re circling. No gunfire, just the wings beating. The man operating the radio station isn’t sure whether to turn on his microphone or not.

     “Deacon, listen to me. What didn’t he tell you? If they find me here, they’ll —”

     “They’re not after _you_ , genius,” Deacon says. “They’re here for Lee.”

 

* * *

 

     “Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it, do you hear me? _Pull the trigger_!”

     Danse hears the low whistle of a Fat Man launching, while Deacon ducks behind the walls to avoid the radiation. Ronnie Shaw pulls a grenade pin out with her teeth and hurls it out towards another vertibird. The fuselage starts to burn. Vaguely, he wonders if anyone can recognize him. The one higher up, circling the perimeter — that has to be Maxson.

     The artillery isn’t in range to hit any of the vertibirds. They must have planned around that — the Castle’s strongest asset rendered useless. In the corner of his eye, Danse notices a laser turret fall apart like cardboard.

     A ghoul hoists a minigun up and aims. The vertibird hit by the mini-nuke tailspins, landing flush against the Castle walls, burning bits of metal hailing down. Of course taking one down does more harm than good.

     “Fuck. _Fuck_!” Danse notices a soldier next to him, far beyond recovery. Then — a loud wave of feedback echos in Danse’s ears., before Maxson’s voice takes over the radio frequency.

     “Commonwealth Minutemen.” The over-dramatic contempt in his voice makes his chest tighten. The admiration it once inspired was gone, replaced with something closer to fear.

     A bullet sails past Danse’s ear, striking a Knight in the throat. Danse watches him tumble down from the vertibird, then turns to see Deacon reloading a long-distance rifle.

     “Please, stand down. We wish only … to negotiate. For the return of a deserter with important Brotherhood intel. Your _General_.”

     Everyone stops firing, for just a moment. Danse hears a ghoul practically wail from the other side of the courtyard, a medic working as fast as he can. Bodies on the ground. He doesn't recall having to see so many dead civilians before. Maxson always kept them out of view. Never let them remember what they were doing. 

     “Anyone know where the hell our General is?” Shaw says, standing by the radio tower. Danse is close behind, retrieving a Stimpak, handing one off to the ghoul with the minigun. “Because this is a goddamn stalemate.”

     A thought strikes him that he wishes he never had to think. He sees the face of a familiar scribe in Maxson's vertibird — then Rhys standing next to her, with the red Paladin paint over his armor. He has to, he tells himself. For himself. For everyone. 

     “I have an idea,” he says, and Shaw turns towards him, understandably skeptical. He points at the artillery cannons perched on the Castle’s supports. Then to the Prydwen.

 

* * *

 

     Lee knows what’s happening miles before they show up. He climbs up over the stone supports and slides down through the rubble. Preston is close behind, already aiming his musket at the vertibirds circling over their heads.

     They both hear a cry from one of the platforms: “Synth _bastard_!”

     Lee sees Danse stumble backwards, preventing Deacon from shooting. Then he reaches out to grab Preston’s arm, bracing himself as they both rush to the radio tower. It’s a disaster — it must be like shooting fish in a barrel from up there. Danse and Ronnie turn around to face them, wild-eyed.

     “How the hell are we getting out of this?”  

     “We have to burn it down,” Danse shouts to them. “It’s the only way.”

     Ronnie stares between them all, cranking the handle on her musket’s capacitor. Even Lee seems to hesitate. “Jesus, Danse.”

     They look up to the Prydwen. Lee sets his shoulders straight, then nods — Ronnie starts pointing men to the artillery. Preston starts shooting. Danse keeps looking up, stepping out to face the vertibirds. He feels eyes on him.

     “ _You_ ,” Maxson shouts. “I shouldn’t be surprised. How many automatons does your General keep company with?”

     Lee clutches at the microphone, leaning over the table. Bullets hail into the dirt. He hears men cursing, avoiding gunfire, while the cannons start to whir, slowly. “This isn’t worth it, Maxson.”

     “Don’t you understand? Everything has led up to this. Did you _truly_ think the Brotherhood would let you walk after what you’ve done? After everything, did you —”

     He’s interrupted by a flash, plumes of smoke rising from the platforms. Danse looks away. Preston doesn’t. Maxson falls silent for just a moment, watching, the radio picking up his faint whisper:

    “Oh my God.”

     It turns into cacophony — shouting from above, cries of relief from the ground. Some of the vertibirds start shooting without a second thought. Someone’s gotten their hands on another mini nuke, and it goes careening into a metal cockpit, blowing soldiers out from the platform while it sinks slowly. The zeppelin starts to go up in flames, nose-first into the harbor.

     Out of the corner of his eye, Preston can see Lee climbing up the radio tower, shooting at the squad that’s dropped to the ground. He doesn’t stop to ask what the hell he’s doing — he’s too busy trying to take out the guy in the power armor. A bullet grazes his leg, but he barely notices.

     “Go ahead, Maxson. Fight. Die some fucking hero’s death,” Lee shouts. Wind starts to ruffle the grass, the bird getting lower to the ground. “Or save yourself and get the hell out. Your choice.”

     Maxson is, for once, at a loss for words. All he can manage is: “You’re disgusting.”

     The vertibird sputters and starts to ascend above the stone wall. Lee notices a gaping hole in its tail, presumably from a laser musket. Maxson ducks out of view. The remaining Brotherhood soldiers watch it make its way due south, away from the burning Prydwen, towards the edge of the Commonwealth. Before anyone else makes a move, they start running.


End file.
